


Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ableism, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Christmas, Epilepsy, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Holmes Brothers, JME, Seizure, accidental ableism, epileptic, festive, fraternal love, myoclonic jerks, seizure disorder, stigma - Freeform, tonic-clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 00:30:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7991959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <b>Note: Falls between "Comfort in Family" and "Sixteen Candles".</b>
</p><p>Christmas is a family affair and, as ever, Mycroft proves his worth as Sherlock's family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whitchry9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/gifts).



> I rocked out so hard to Christmas music writing this!

Mycroft woke up to the sound of a bump and arched up on his elbows, blinking to clear the sleep from his vision. The sides of his curtains leaked a murky blue glow from the early morning into the darkness of his room, giving him just enough light to make out the shapes of the furniture in his room. He reached across to his nightstand and turned the clock to face him; it was almost six am. He lay back down, his eyelids dragging in slower blinks as he began drifting back off to sleep, discounting the noise as an intrusion in his dreams. He exhaled peacefully, slowly succumbing to the beauty of returning to sleep when one woke before they needed to. It was mere moments before his eyes shot open again, though, aware of a loud sound that he had heard before and always struck fear into his mind. He threw back the duvet and tossed his legs from the bed, shoving his feet into his slippers as he stood up. 

He threw open his bedroom door and moved quickly across the landing to Sherlock’s bedroom, pushing the door open without knocking. He found Sherlock’s bed empty and the fifteen-year-old himself on the floor in the grip of a tonic-clonic seizure. It was clear to Mycroft as he quickly placed himself at Sherlock’s side that the teen had got out of bed to alert somebody to the approaching seizure when he’d fallen. The locker at Sherlock’s bedside had been knocked, evident from the tipped lamp, that was on but lying on its side precariously, and the bump on Sherlock’s forehead that was rapidly beginning to swell. Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock’s hip and peered at his face; Sherlock’s eyes were wide, rolled upwards and fixed, and his jaw twitched awkwardly as guttural groans escaped his chest. 

“Alright Locky,” Mycroft spoke quietly and gently, circulating his hand where it lay on top of Sherlock’s pyjama trousers. Mycroft breathed steadily, using his exhales to help him count the seconds, and kept whispering shushing sounds in an attempt to soothe Sherlock as the seizure continued. After two minutes of Mycroft’s presence, the seizure began to slow and the vigorous, repetitive jerks became smaller twitches before dissipating, leaving Sherlock still and breathing in heaving, wet gasps. “That’s it, Sherlock, you’re fine.” Mycroft moved his hand from Sherlock’s hip and reached up to push Sherlock’s hair from his clammy forehead. “What a way to start Christmas day, Locky…” he whispered, examining the bump on his forehead. “It’s okay, Sherlock, you’re okay.” He soothed gently as Sherlock’s face crumpled and he gave an alarming sob. 

Mycroft waited until Sherlock’s eyes began to search more purposefully, waiting for Sherlock to begin moving his limbs in an intentional manner, before he tried to elicit speech from him. He peered down at him, keeping on hand on Sherlock’s hip comfortingly, and smiled gently at him. “You’re okay, it’s alright, you had a seizure. Can you talk to me?” 

Sherlock’s eyes blinked lethargically and he nodded in a small, jerky movement. “Yeah…” he mumbled. 

Mycroft sighed in relief. “Good, that’s good. You’ve banged your head pretty good but it doesn’t look too serious, and your hair will cover it so don’t worry. How do you feel? Do you think you can stand up?” 

“Yeah,” Sherlock gave another jerky nod, accompanied by a sigh through his nose, and Mycroft thought that perhaps he was expecting too much. “...help…” Sherlock grumbled and began pushing his hands into the carpet to sit up. Mycroft moved to sit in front of Sherlock and pushed his hands in under Sherlock’s arms, easing him into a sitting position against the side of the bed. When Sherlock nodded, indicating he was ready, Mycroft helped him to his feet and encouraged him to sit on the edge of the bed. 

“You should sleep for a while, Sherlock.” Mycroft said, standing before him with his hands on his hips like a mother hen. 

Sherlock nodded his head slowly, “Yeah…” he rubbed his left eye with the heel of his hand. “Headache.” He sighed. 

Mycroft reached forwards and ruffled Sherlock’s head gently. “Legs up,” he said, “Lie down and sleep.” 

Sherlock reached down to his lap with both hands, patting at his pyjama bottoms, expecting to be wet. “I didn’t piss myself…” he said and looked up at his brother. 

“Score one for Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft said with a slight smile. “Come on, legs up and sleep,” he urged him. He waited until Sherlock followed his instructions, lethargically drawing his legs up onto the bed and curling onto his side. Mycroft drew the duvet up and threw it over his waist, knowing Sherlock didn’t like to be buried beneath it entirely. “I’ll be across my room, alright? Just shout out if you want me.” 

“Why would I want you?” Sherlock blinked, his eyes desperate to close. 

Mycroft patted Sherlock’s hip over the duvet, “Absolutely no reason at all,” Mycroft intoned. He lifted the lamp up and set it back on the nightstand carefully. “If you think you’re going to have another, don’t get out of bed. Shout, and I’ll come in.” 

“I won’t….,” Sherlock paused and yawned. “I’m alright, Mycroft.” He sounded small and exhausted. 

“Of course you are,” Mycroft nodded his head, “Lamp off?” 

“No, leave it on,” Sherlock said sleepily. 

Mycroft waited a moment, watching his brother. Sherlock’s hand twisted into his head absentmindedly on the pillow as he quickly gave in to the postictal fatigue. When Mycroft heard Sherlock’s breathing slowly even out, he moved quietly across the carpet and left the bedroom, leaving Sherlock’s door ajar. He returned to his room but he did not go back to sleep. He left the main light on and listened out for Sherlock. He washed in the en-suite, and was dressed and reading at his old desk by the time eight am rolled in. Placing his book down, he rose from the desk chair and crossed the landing again to check on Sherlock. 

He found the fifteen-year-old panned across the bed, head buried in his pillows and snuffling contentedly in a deep sleep. He smiled, glad to see it, and left the room quietly, this time pulling the door closed. He didn’t return to his room, instead he made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. He boiled the kettle to make tea and considered that he hadn’t been awake this early on a Christmas morning since Sherlock was six-years-old and eager to see if Santa had brought him the pirate ship and parrot he’d desperately wanted. Neither item had been under the tree, of course - not in the capacity the child had been expecting (there had been toy ones, though) - and Sherlock had sulked for a full hour and sworn off ever believing Santa was real. Mycroft was snapped from his memory-induced daydream by the bump the kitchen door gave as it swung shut, and he looked up to see his father walking toward him with a surprised smile. 

“You’re up with the birds, Mike,” He said fondly, flicking the kettle on to reboil. “Couldn’t sleep?” He asked with a concerned frown, worried that perhaps his son had spent the entire night awake. 

“No, I slept well once I actually went to bed. Sherlock and I were awake later than I’d intended to be.” Mycroft answered him and then took a sip from his mug of tea. He exhaled slowly, “Sherlock had a seizure early this morning, one of the big ones. He’s alright,” he quickly said as Siger looked at him with worry, “He’s fast asleep now and it wasn’t a long one at all. Bumped his head though, right here…” he pointed to his own forehead, above his brow on the left side. 

Siger shook his head as he took two cups down from the press. “He’s been doing so well for the last two weeks.” 

Mycroft drew his mouth to the side, “Perhaps it’s my fault, I kept him up late.” 

“There are nights he doesn’t sleep at all, Mike, don’t blame yourself.” Siger insisted quickly. “Oh,” He said, pushing teabags into the two cups. “Merry Christmas, son.” He looked at his eldest with a sleepy smile, and Mycroft smiled back if only one that was restrained. 

“Merry Christmas,” he said. 

 

 

 

Mycroft folded his knife and fork neatly together on the cleared plate and reached for his glass of wine. He took a sip before setting it back down. The large dining room at his paternal Grandmother’s house was swarming with conversation, joyful giggles from younger children and the occasional clinking of glasses as people toasted between bites of food and jokes made. He caught Sherlock’s eye in the chair across from him and raised his eyebrows at the frown on his face. They communicated with facial expressions, both rolling their eyes, both inching their heads toward people and making faces. It wasn’t until Sherlock giggled unexpectedly that Violet turned around and gave him a swat across the bicep with the back of her hand, stopping their mocking. Mycroft laughed to himself at the expression Sherlock shot toward her. 

“Mike,” Siger warned, shaking his head in amusement. 

“I didn’t do anything -,” Mycroft couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. He reached for his wine glass again. He looked around at the cousins he hadn’t seen in a long time and wondered where the link was. He knew he and Sherlock were very much like their mother, that they took a lot of their manner and the way that their mind worked from her, but it always seemed odd to Mycroft that they were so unlike their father’s family, especially when Sherlock, in particular, took so much of his physical appearance from the man. 

“I do like the tie, Mikey,” his aunt Amanda commented, commanding his attention, and he looked first down at it, then up at her. 

“Thank you,” He said, adjusting it absentmindedly. 

“How’s things, then?” She asked him, “It’s always so long between visits I forget everything that’s going on with you.” 

“Things are fine,” He said, nursing his wine glass. “University keeps me busy.” 

“I’d imagine so,” his aunt Abigail chipped in from beside her sister. As usual, she was six sheets to the wind and showed no signs of slowing her intake. “And it won’t be long until you’re in the upper sixth, will it Locky?” She turned on her younger nephew. 

“September,” Sherlock said, poking his fork into his barely touched food. He looked up at her, “I just started my fifth year this September.” 

“Important year then,” Amanda nodded brightly, “Exams, choices to make for the future.” 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, “I suppose.” 

“What were your options choices?” Amanda asked with clear genuine interest, “I think I asked you before but I don’t remember,” She blushed and rolled her eyes, laughing at herself. “Scatterbrain!” 

“History and Music,” Sherlock told her, “Everything else was already mandatory.” 

“Oh, do you still play the, um...cello?” Abigail asked, pointing to him with her glass of vodka and lime. 

“Violin,” Sherlock corrected. “Yes, I do.” 

“You should play for us, Lock…” Sherlock turned as his cousin, Alison, spoke up shyly before pushing a forkful of mashed potatoes into her mouth. 

“Yes!” Amanda agreed with a high screech, “That would be lovely - Mummy, do you still have the violin in the study? You could play that, Locky!” 

“I think so, yes.” Sherlock looked to his Grandmother with an abashed smile as she gave him one of loving intent in return.

“Oh, sweetheart, you should,” Violet squeezed her hand over Sherlock’s and nodded, widening her eyes in encouragement. Sherlock looked across the table at Mycroft, who wasn’t hiding his obvious mirth at Sherlock now being centre of attention, and scowled at him. 

“Maybe,” Sherlock eventually responded to the barrage of requests. He dropped his fork to his plate and reached forwards for his glass of juice. He sat back in his chair as the conversation changed and tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth, peeling the dry skin away. 

“Oh goodness,” Amanda exclaimed, and everyone turned to her. “Locky, sweetheart, how did you hurt your head?” 

Mycroft’s breath hitched in his throat as he looked across, releasing Sherlock’s usually forehead-smearing fringe had parted to the side, revealing the ten-pence-piece sized bruise with a central graze above his brow. Sherlock raised his hand quickly and messed up his hair, hoping it did the trick to hide the offending injury. 

“On my nightstand…” he said coolly. 

“Silly fool dropped his watch this morning and headbutted the cabinet when he bent to pick it up.” Violet added quickly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand again. Siger and Mycroft watched Violet’s edginess with raised eyebrows. Mycroft’s eyes flicked to his brother, looking for all the world like he wished the ground would swallow him up. 

Abigail gave a hyperactive laugh, “You clumsy bugger!” She chirped. “Must get that from your Dad; remember when you trapped your hand in the door of Dad’s car?” She turned on Siger, smiling. “You cried like a baby.” 

“I was eight-years-old, Abigail…” Siger picked up the conversational thread, sparing his youngest. “What else was I supposed to do after an accident like that?” 

Abigail laughed again, “Mummy nearly had a conniption when she saw, it swelled up terribly.” 

“It would!” Amanda defended, “A big car door squashing a child’s hand,” She tutted and shook her head. 

“Sherlock and I will clear the table if you’d like, Granny,” Mycroft volunteered, standing up. He watched Sherlock scramble to his feet quickly. 

Millicent gave her grandsons a fond smile, “Thank you, boys. Always so helpful.” She watched them as they gathered up everything empty that their arms could safely carry and take it from the room, heading toward the kitchen. 

Once in the kitchen, Mycroft set the plates down on the countertop and turned to Sherlock, a few steps behind him. “Are you alright?” 

“Why doesn’t she just…” Sherlock growled as he set the plates down. “She keeps…” He shrugged his shoulders and made a face, exhaling sharply. 

Mycroft placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders as he stood in front of him and gave him a gentle shake. “I don’t know, Sherlock. But hey,” he teased, “You’re going to delight the family fireside with your bow.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed Mycroft’s arms away, “I should have let her keep saying cello. Granny doesn’t have one, I might have gotten away with it.” Sherlock rubbed his right eye with the back of his hand and laughed. He checked the time on his watch as he drew his arm back down. “Bollocks, I need to get my meds from the car.” He groaned. 

“I’ll go out and get them; sit in here and wait.” He pointed to the small kitchen table, rarely used by anyone since Millicent and William had raised their children, even less so since William’s passing. “Which ones do you want?” Mycroft asked. 

“Epilim,” Sherlock said, “Big white box - don’t bring the others in, it’s diazepam. If Auntie Abi gets hold of that she’ll be totalled.” 

Mycroft snorted at the thought. “Alright, I won’t be long.” 

 

 

Sherlock and Mycroft sat back and watched in amusement as the night turned from merry to intoxicated in the extreme, even seeing their mother indulge a little too much once the entire family had squeezed into the lounge before the roaring fire and illuminated Christmas tree. Sherlock sat on the floor, his back leaning against the base of the chair that Mycroft was perched in, and offered up sincere giggles as they watched Amanda attempting to act out ‘Hamlet’ in an alcohol-fuelled game of Charades. 

Mycroft reached down and drummed his fingers on the top of Sherlock’s head, and laughed breathily when Sherlock simply tipped back his head rather than turning. “You alright?” Sherlock nodded his head. Mycroft didn’t point out that he’d noticed his jerks beginning a short time before, a clear sign that the teen was becoming a little more fatigued than his brain was able to cope with. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t give in, though - he’d seen Sherlock attempt to hold back the jerks his body was trying so hard to contract into before now and knew that he would fight it to the last. Still, Mycroft didn’t have the heart to suggest that they should maybe he heading home - seeing genuine amusement on Sherlock’s face, and his parents’, was too good of a memory to give up making. 

After ten minutes of struggling, Amanda finally just told everybody what she was trying to do and allowed Violet to take her turn. Sherlock tipped his head back again, stretching his neck tightly, and pulled a face at his brother. Mycroft twitched his brows at him, silently questioning, Sherlock just rolled his eyes and straightened his neck, watching their tipsy mother stand before the fire and make indeterminable gestures. When a particularly sharp jerk knocked Sherlock’s elbow back, he cursed as the bone knocked off of the leg of the armchair and the subsequent movement toppled the glass of wine Mycroft had set to the floor. “Shit…” 

Mycroft sat straight and leant forwards, reaching for the glass with his right hand whilst his left settled on Sherlock’s left shoulder, “Okay?” He asked him in a whisper in his ear. 

Sherlock nodded his head. “Sorry,” he tugged his mouth down in the corners. 

“It’s alright,” Mycroft said as he sat back and slowly drew his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder. He kept his eyes on the back of Sherlock’s head, watching closely, counting the frequency of the myoclonics. From a few random bursts in his right arm they became almost constant and localised to his right shoulder, twitching it down in six or eight successive jerks before releasing for a moment and beginning again. Mycroft knew that even Sherlock couldn’t deny their annoyance when he threw back his head again. 

“I want to go home,” he said in a strained whisper, his voice odd with the positioning of his head. “We can let Mum and Dad stay, you can drive me back?” 

Mycroft nodded, agreeing to the idea. “I’ll get the keys from Dad.” He ruffled his hand in Sherlock’s hair before he shoved him aside lovingly to allow him to get to his feet. 

It didn’t take long for him to readjust to the frequency of Sherlock’s seizures when he returned home from university, but it never did become routine. Being away only ever made it more obvious when he was around his brother - the absences, the myoclonics. There was so much more to Sherlock’s epilepsy, aspects of it that were more bothersome than the tonic-clonic seizures, that people would never understand. The routine of his medication, having to be careful about how he divided up his time, having to make sure he slept well and the consequences he suffered if he didn’t. 

With an agreement made with his father - they would take a cab later - Mycroft and Sherlock gave loving kisses and brief embraces before bundling into their father’s MGA for the drive back to the family home. Sherlock’s myoclonics continued for the entire drive, bugging the boy so severely that he grumbled and groaned in outward annoyance. In the five years he’d seen Sherlock’s body and brain often _battered_ by his epilepsy, it was always in the more ‘simple’ of seizure types that Mycroft found himself feeling most sorry for his brother. 

They barely spoke, even as the car came to a stop in the driveway at home. Sherlock threw himself into the house and more or less straight into bed, hoping for a quick settling time. Mycroft made himself a cup of tea, listening to Sherlock’s footsteps overhead, and took the time to finish it before he climbed the stairs to check on his brother. Sherlock’s bedroom door was ajar but the lights were out. Peering around the door, opening it further to grant him access, Mycroft stepped into the doorway and cast his eyes in at Sherlock. 

The younger Holmes lay splayed on his stomach, hands tucked beneath the mountains of pillows, breathing deeply in his almost immediate descension into sleep. Mycroft smiled, sadly mind, and exhaled. “Merry Christmas, Locky.”


End file.
